The Soul of Discretion
by Bespectacled
Summary: "I have never been in love," Sibyl said carefully, eyes down, glad that Althea's back was to her. "But I should imagine that, if I were, I would tell of the man, not of the trouble I was causing."


She had been summoned to Althea Browning's home with some urgency – apparently the girl felt the need to unburden herself to someone, and Sybil Crawley was that someone.

"Sybil, darling, thank you." Althea embraced the woman as if she were a long-lost sister. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Really, Althea, it's fine." They went through to Althea's salon, Althea glancing around anxiously. "Are you quite alright?"

"No, Sybil, I must confess that I am not alright." She sighed.

"I am a little surprised you chose to call on me – you're so much closer to Edith." Sybil was almost surprised when Althea clasped her hands.

"Edith is not the soul of discretion, Sybil, I believe you are." Althea whispered earnestly. "I cannot bear to hold this secret any longer."

"What is it?"

"I am having an affair." Althea hissed, squeezing Sybil's hands, eyes shining.

She did not appear repentant.

"Althea..." Sybil said softly. "But... you're to be married, aren't you?"

"Yes! It's thrilling, Sybil, if my father found out..." She looked as if she were trying to feign shame, but this attempt had failed – she was positively giddy. "Especially..."

Sybil waited for her to continue, before realising the part that Althea wanted her to play. "Do tell." She encouraged, not really meaning it, fairly certain that she would have to prompt in order for Althea to justify her outburst.

"Especially because he is one of the staff!" Althea gasped out, looking suddenly as if she truly had unburdened herself. "You have no idea how liberating it is to actually tell someone."

Sybil stared at her, unbelieving, uncertain of how to react. "One of the staff?"

Althea nodded briskly. "One of the footmen. David. Father would go mad, if he knew that I was seeing one of the staff when I was meant to be saving myself for Lord Henderson..." She made a face. "Lord Henderson, the dullest man alive. Possibly the eldest, too. And we all know that I am only being married off to him because he can't have my sister."

Sibyl had come to the conclusion that Althea expected her to offer sympathy, and then ask for more detail regarding David. However, that wasn't what was on her mind. "Do you care for David, or for the shock it gives your father?"

Althea had not expected such a question. She gasped, staring. "Sibyl! How could you ask such a thing?"

"You have spoken more about the potential for scandal than the man himself." Sibyl replied simply, watching Althea's face. "Is it truly a love affair, or just an affair?"

Althea stood up, releasing Sybil's hand and any attempt at faux sisterhood. She moved to the window. "I don't know how you can say such a thing."

"I have never been in love," Sibyl said carefully, eyes down, glad that Althea's back was to her. "But I should imagine that, if I were, I would tell of the man, not of the trouble I was causing."

Althea went to the window, looking out across the grounds. "I think that, perhaps, you should have your driver bring you home."

Sibyl had her answer, rising to leave. She glanced at Althea, knowing she wouldn't be invited again. "I shan't tell."

Althea nodded.

* * *

><p>Sybil settled herself in the back of the car, quiet, thoughtful.<p>

"Everything alright, m'lady?"

She looked up, smiling slightly – Branson's Irish lilt always made her smile, it was almost a reflex.

She could trust him completely, and she did. "Althea imparted a secret to me. Gleefully." She paused, almost waiting for him to ask her what it was – but, of course, he didn't.

"You wish that she hadn't?" He met her eyes in the mirror, an odd expression on his face.

"It's not especially troubling, Branson, you have no need to be concerned." She informed him gently. "It was... It was the way she told me. As if it were all a game, a silly game, as if she hadn't even begun to think about who she may hurt..."

"Are you certain you're alright, m'lady?" He asked softly, pulling the car over, giving her his full attention.

Sibyl sighed. "She's having an affair with one of the footmen."

Branson stiffened. "Do you believe that's why she called on _you_, not Lady Edith?"

"She believed it was because I was the soul of discretion. Which, of course, I am." She met his eyes, giving him the unspoken promise that nobody knew about them. "I'd rather like to go for a short walk, to clear my head."

"Of course, m'lady." He helped her down, his hand in hers for too long (and yet not long enough)

He walked alongside her for a short while, in companionable silence, looking simply like her escort – the truth completely unclear.

"She only cared for the scandal it would cause."Sibyl said at last, looking at him. "She hadn't thought of his feelings, of the feelings of her intended..." She sighed. "She didn't love him, Branson." His name sounded clumsy on her tongue – she hated calling him that. When they were alone – safely alone – he was Tom, beloved Tom, dearest Tom.

But the countryside was wide, anybody could be anywhere, they could be heard. "Do you think he loved her, m'lady?"

She was meant to be Sibyl, only Sibyl, darling Sybil.

"I can't say; I don't believe I've met the man, let alone seen him beside her." She glanced at him, wondering if they were obvious, wondering if everybody knew. "You don't think that he did?"

"There are those below stairs who'd use such a connection to their advantage – who may cultivate a relationship for that very purpose." He replied simply, noticing the flash of fear in her eyes, wanting to hold her, reassure her he wasn't one of them, wanting to tell her that if that had been his intention he wouldn't have told her of the sort. "I have met them. They are rarely successful, nor popular." He smiled as reassuringly as he could, briefly touching her arm – too briefly. "They do not remain employed for long."

"How beastly." Sibyl replied softly, casting her eyes down.

"Would you have been bothered by this if she loved him?" He asked tenderly, offering his arm as she reached a patch of unsteady ground.

She took it gratefully, wondering if she could walk entirely on unsteady ground. "I can't say. She's engaged – I think that is the part that..." It wasn't quite troubling her, it was simply something she felt very aware of, something she didn't believe she'd forget easily. "She is toying with everybody's feelings. If she is discovered, then hearts will break – that seems to be her only reasoning."

Yes, then, he thought – it is that she doesn't love him.

"You're nothing like her." He whispered, only just loud enough for her to hear him.

She turned to him, wanting to throw her arms around his neck, wanting to hold him, wanting to hide in him. She wasn't certain that she'd be able to get away that night, didn't know if she'd be able to slip to his cottage to be in his arms.

Neither would acknowledge the thrill of the illicit, despite it being a definite factor. But there was affection here, there was love – it was truly a love affair, not just sensation.

She had heard of young women – the ones who weren't heiresses, usually, the neglected second or third daughters, although occasionally an heiress had been caught out – who turned to the staff for their affections, and frankly she hadn't understood it until he arrived.

It wasn't that she didn't have a relationship with the staff – on the contrary, she held some in deep affection. It was more that there was an unspoken gap – she felt that even if she had wanted to throw herself at one of them, they would gallantly step aside and tell her very softly that it wasn't appropriate, and then possibly resign.

Sometimes she wondered if there was more nobility downstairs than upstairs.

She still didn't think she could truly understand the young women who had affairs with the staff – Branson, after all, wasn't really staff, not in the same way that Carson was, for instance. He had no intention of being a chauffeur forever – he'd made that clear to her, shortly after they had met. They felt no gap between them, unspoken or otherwise.

(Perhaps that was how all young woman felt about their below-stairs paramours, that they were different, that they weren't really staff – perhaps that was the distinction between those who loved and those who played.)

Before he had come here, she hadn't understood love, or lust. She had known, for instance, that Matthew was a handsome man, that he was charming, but these things had been abstract, meaningless things.

When she had first met the young chauffeur she had been struck by his handsomeness, found herself quite distracted by what little she could see of his flesh from the back of the car (when he first arrived conversations with her in the car were near impossible – unless, of course, it was him she was conversing with).

As he encouraged her political leanings, he encouraged her affection for him, seducing her with words and ideas – looking back, he couldn't say that there was ever a time when he hadn't desired her. Much as he wanted to believe he had seduced her by accident, he had always wanted this, wanted the closeness between them.

"I lied to her."

He glanced to her, watching her expression, although her face was turned towards the ground, eyes cast down. "M'lady?"

"I told her I'd never been in love." Sybil didn't look at him, and had no intention of speaking further.

He swallowed hard, looking ahead as she studied the unsteady ground. "It wasn't a lie, m'lady. I've never been in love either."

She looked up at him, before catching his drift, before her eyes began to sting. It had been a long, emotional day. She leaned against him, closer than she should've been to him but finding it hard to care, wondering how long they could continue, walking on the unsteady ground.

* * *

><p><em>This one has been up on AO3 and on my writing journal, but not here - it's one of my favourites, so I thought I'd bring it to a wider audience. <em>

_One of these days I'll manage to write fluff for them. Without transporting them to a completely different century, I mean.  
><em>


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